


disambiguation

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Identity, post-405 "Hysterical Blindness" tag, volume 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't feel right but it didn't feel wrong, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	disambiguation

(i) fugue

 _Brother_ is what Samuel called him. He was so warm and inviting with his extended arm, saving him from his pursuers. His chest was so tight with fear that he didn't have the words to thank him and the smile and reassuring shoulder squeeze Samuel gave him allayed his confusion. He swallowed his trepidation and walked towards the hubbub of neon lights and carnival sounds, welcomed by the strange stature of a man, speaking of a new home and a new family. Family was important. _Brother,_ he repeated to himself. Brother.

It’d been well past midnight and he was cold, still shaken to his core despite the sweatshirt and pants and time spent in the station’s bathroom washing his face. The dim lights of the interrogation room made him feel small and clueless, further amplified by the way he sat on one side of the table while Captain Lubbock lurked in the shadows, his disapproval palatable. Yet Doctor Gibson’s kindness was as soothing as the tea and clean clothes. Her kind smile and solemn vow that they’d figure it out together gave him hope; the earnestness and vitality of her words had felt tinged with familiarity. When she’d begun undoing the cuffs, she squeezed his hands, much to Captain Lubbock’s obvious chagrin, but her promise was something more. He knew of promises and mysteries, somehow. When her eyes met his, they spoke volumes of something that he couldn’t articulate. He couldn’t articulate much of anything. Not when he could still feel the weight of the earth on his shoulders, suffocating him. Did she know what it was like to gasp and heave for breath, pinned by something you couldn’t fight against? He looked away from her face, never wishing that thought upon anyone, least of all her. His eyes fell upon the way her hands covered his and he slowly ran his index finger over her dark knuckles. He tilted his head and found himself stroking both of her thumbs awkwardly, wondering why she didn’t wear any rings—she wasn’t married, but he didn’t see her wearing any other jewelry either—and he ended up twisted in a myriad of confusing thoughts. When he saw the way she was sitting there patiently, observing him observing her, he drew his hands away and began picking at his fingernails. Picking at the dirt that he knew wasn’t there anymore, but he still felt it, something he couldn’t completely wash away.

He’d shifted uncomfortably when Doctor Gibson smiled at him, her accent and indoor voice softening her words as she tried walking him through the memory excercises. Beneath the demure, professional surface was a deep well of sincerity. He could use that. Except he didn’t know why he knew that and it made him uneasy to think he knew something she didn’t when clearly he didn’t know who he was in the first place.

 _Gabriel_ is what Captain Lubbock called him, full of animosity and lies were impossible to comprehend. The accusations felt like sandpaper over his skin, a mounting discomfort when he was re-cuffed to the chair and his tea taken away. Lubbock’s posture was steeped in vitriol and that scared him, especially once the he shoved the chair and table aside. But when Captain Lubbock flew through the mirror, his heart leapt into his throat, but it was all instinct, completely automatic the way he hopped through the window and over the broken glass and snatched the gun from the man’s holster and kept his head down. He knew he had to find her. He knew trust felt like, the fragile twine. He knew how to hold it in his hands, even if was he held a gun at the same time. When he was crouched in the backseat of the her car, he had to press the heel of his palms against his eyes to keep himself from breaking down completely when her voice cracked in terror: _Gabriel._

It had been too dark in the backseat. Too dark when he closed his eyes and tried to ignore Doctor Gibson’s pleading voice. It’s why now he couldn’t tear himself from the swirling neon lights from the whirlygig ride outside the trailer window. It’s when Samuel squeezed his shoulder that he looked back at the man.

“Sleep. Rest your tired bones. I’ll come and get you when it’s time for breakfast. And then we’ll feed your soul,” Samuel said with a smile, the words quietly reverberating with a dramatic flourish in his chest. Samuel motioned behind him with his chin. “Bed, bathroom. Everything you see here is yours,” he said, turning around and unhooking a hanger from a cabinet handle. “You’ll find these more comfortable or sleeping,” he said and pushed the lightweight shirt and canvas pants towards him.

Samuel’s hand traveled from his neck down to his elbow. He wanted to fling the arm away, demand to know where he was, _who_ he was, but the flurry of emotions melted like a snowflake on the tip of his tongue from the warmth in Samuel’s touch. Samuel squeezed his arm and smiled again, his disposition nothing but reassuring to his confused senses, like he was used to such a touch. Samuel stepped down from the trailer, closing the door behind him.

He stared at the door for a long time before he looked down at the clothing in his hands. He managed to flick the stove light on in the kitchen and heaved the too-warm sweatshirt off and slipped the canvas top over his shoulders, pausing briefly to notice the reflection of the light off the mirror hanging on the the bathroom door. He opened it and looked at his own reflection, the smeared blood across his ribcage. He ran his fingers over his skin, finding no bullet wounds, only the dried blood. He went back to the sink and pulled open several drawers until he found a ratty washcloth. He moistened it under the faucet and scrubbed himself clean for the second time that night, trying to ignore the shake in his hands as he dried the would-be wound.

He stepped closer to the mirror to inspect himself. It was impossible. He’d felt the impact, felt the gut-wrenching _pain_ and adrenaline kick in. He was _shot_ but there was nothing indicating an injury. Except… except there was a thin line, low on his abdomen, arching upwards like a knife wound. Almost like a crease in his skin. He angled himself for a better look, tracing the scar. Another puzzle. Another fear. But it was something.

He clenched his fists and tried buttoning the shirt down the middle and rubbed his face. He kicked off the scuffed tennis shoes and shuffled into the narrow hallway by the bathroom to push the dirty sweatpants down and pull the clean ones over his bony hips. He kicked the pants away and bent down to pick up a lone shoe from the floor. It was worn, the laces grimy from the tumble down the hill, having put a million miles on them by now. He looked at the size of the shoe and turned it around in the neon gleam. The size looked right, it felt right. They didn’t give him any blisters. But it was just a shoe, it didn’t matter what size it was. He dropped it with a careless clunk and walked to the sink, pulling the blinds up to watch the winking lights disappear. Nobody visits a carnival at 4 in the morning—except him, apparently. He was still frustrated that he didn’t know where he was.

He turned to look around the cluttered trailer, looking at the things hanging up on strings, small trinkets— _knickknacks_ — he knew about knickknacks and the home-y feeling they gave off. The quaintness. Adding to one’s collection. The hand-carved statuettes sitting on top of the refrigerator appeared to be small woodland creatures, with a fairy or gnome in between. He looked at them with an appraising eye. Perhaps it was within the realm of possibility that he’d collected little treasures like that before. He turned around some more, looking at how the trailer appeared to be in the midst of being cleaned up. He could still smell the disinfectant on the countertops where pots and pans were pushed to the side. There were salt and pepper shakers wedged together on the kitchen table with a matching napkin holder. He tipped the salt over and then turned to look at the refrigerator, unsure of what food he liked. When he reached for the handle, the door popped open before his fingers closed around the handle. The light from the refrigerator was refreshing from the encroaching darkness inside the trailer. There was nothing but a glass bottle of milk inside. The milk looked old.

Without turning the stove light off, he made his way to the end of the trailer, peering into cramped bedroom. He could stand up straight inside, turn around, but it was still too tight. He knelt onto the bed and pushed the blinds aside, taking a moment to watch people disappear around corners of equipment and other trailers, waving their goodbyes. There wasn’t much more to see. The rides were not in motion, there were no streams of people to watch, to hide from. He got up and went to the sliding glass window, still finding himself exhausted but restless at the same time. He wasn’t ready for the day to end but at least the sun would be coming up soon enough. He could face the new day with more questions and he might even get some answers.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking around at the darkness, eyeing the way the kitchen light receded in the hallway. When he scooted up onto the sheets, he sat up and pulled the sheets around his drawn-up knees. It was too dark, too cramped. Too quiet.

He got up and felt around for a light switch along the wall and as he was clambering back onto the bed, his foot hit something that made him stumble into the covers.

He swung himself around and peered over the edge of the bed, reaching for the pile of books that were neatly stacked before he tipped them over.

 _Ulysses_ by James Joyce was the first one he pulled onto the bed. He pulled a few others onto the bed—Tolstoy, Hemmingway, Nabokov—and he looked at each in turn before returning all but James Joyce back on the floor. He reclined back onto the bed, sinking into the pillows, idly comforted by the way the bed felt more like a nook rather than a strange bed. He tried to crack open the book, fingers tracing the delicate spine, but instead of reading the first page, he let the book rest on his stomach, his fingers fanning over the binding. It was possible that he liked books. It felt like he’d been surrounded by them before, maybe. When he picked it back up, it took a moment of scanning the first and second pages to realize that he was too preoccupied his own story and missing pages that he couldn’t focus on the words before him. He pushed the book off the edge of the bed with his foot and curled into the pillows, burrowing into the folds of the sheets until he began to relax. He rolled over, looking out the sliding glass door once again, watching Samuel’s silhouette disappear when the last few lights finally blinked out.

He stared blankly at the kitchen light spilling into the hallway.

 _Sylar_ is what Samuel had called him and slung his arm around his shoulder, guiding him under the canopy of lights, the looping carnival noises assaulting his ears. “You’re going to be all right, Sylar. You’re home now.” _Sylar_ he repeated to himself. Sylar.

It didn’t feel as right as _Brother_ , but it didn’t feel as wrong as _Gabriel_ either.

 


End file.
